


Of luscious, lascivious, lovely legs

by DeVereWinterton



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Arachnophobia, Daydreaming, Episode: s03e07 Game Set & Murder, F/M, Inner Dialogue, Jealousy, Legs, Smutty Thoughts, Spiders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-14
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2019-03-04 13:56:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13366140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeVereWinterton/pseuds/DeVereWinterton
Summary: ‘She was doing it again.As a matter of fact, she had done it so many times that he wasn't sure if she still did it on purpose to tease him, in order to lure him out of his shell, or if it was just a habit by now.’Phryne occupies her favourite piece of furniture, and Jack’s mind, mostly. Set during S03 E07 – Game, Set & Murder (dialogue remains true to the episode).





	Of luscious, lascivious, lovely legs

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as my first or second foray into the MFMM-fandom, several months ago. It popped my Phrack cherry! I first posted this at ff.net, but decided to take it down to revise and rewrite to make it somewhat more AO3-worthy. It was a 2500 word drabble, and now it’s this. I’m not sure it has improved matters, but it's late and I'm hungry.  
> -DVW

_‘Beauty itself doth of itself persuade the eyes of men without an orator.’_

— William Shakespeare

 

She was doing it again.

As a matter of fact, she had done it so many times that he wasn't sure if she still did it on purpose to tease him, in order to lure him out of his shell, or if it was just a habit by now. He suspected it was probably a bit of both. Very likely more of the former.

She was sitting _there_ , perched on the corner of his desk as if she owned the bloody piece of furniture. Then again, in her mind she probably did. It wasn't that she didn't respect his belongings (these days she did, most of the time) but she just had a way of working her way into every crevice of his life. An aggravatingly charming way at that, he might add. Sometimes he would tire of her seemingly never-ending source of energy, accompanied by her never-ending habit of nagging him. Then again, why would she allow for something as little as the entirety of Australia, the earth’s rotations, the universe, to stop her in her quests to uncover the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth?

If he were to be completely honest with himself, he already thought of that spot on the corner of the desk as her spot. He didn’t even stack papers there anymore, leaving it vacant, just in case she would come breezing into his office, all long legs and graceful lines. Not that he would ever tell her that.

He knew he could have side-stepped and could probably have avoided her interference with his cases early on in their acquaintance. Probably. He could have put his toe in the water, so to speak, only to remove it in time. On the other hand; one had very little time when hit by a tidal wave.

And so his case became their case, his job became their job, her nightcap became their nightcap.

His desk became their desk.

It was still very much his office. Sometimes though, he had to check the name on the door that permitted entrance to his office, to establish who was running the place: John ‘Jack’ Robinson, DI, or Miss Fisher, Lady Detective.

He knew a lot about her, yet he wanted to learn more.

Their lives were by now so intertwined, he couldn't imagine solving a case without her. Well, he could, it just pained him to do so. He'd come to care for her, a great deal. He might even say it ran deeper than that; he was undeniably in love with her. It terrified him, yet he could not stay away. Lord knew he had tried. He’d tried to save himself the hurt – what he had thought to be an inevitable pain – by severing all ties with her. The thought of losing her in their line of work (or just in general) had been too much, too painful. It had been too shocking to realise she had come to mean so much to him. His feelings for her had overwhelmed him, and in that moment, he’d fled.

It was only later that he had realised the hurt of not being with her was far worse than the pain of being with her, yet not _being with her_.

It had been even later still when it had struck him just how much pain he had caused her by running away.

Hurting her had definitely hurt him the most.

It had taken him by surprise; the sadness in her eyes as he had left her there, sitting in her parlour. He knew she wouldn’t take well to being rejected in this way, had expected some kind of emotional outburst, but to be honest; he’d expected anger. He had not prepared himself for the hurt he’d found in her eyes, the green-grey brightness suddenly murky with unshed tears.

He knew a lot about her, yet he had not expected nor anticipated that kind of emotional response to his parting words.

He supposed she knew quite a bit about him, as well. Many nights spent in her parlour, indulging in her expensive whiskey, had loosened his tongue. He trusted her with his stories, his past, some of his secrets, his thrills. They'd come to each other's rescue on numerous occasions, although he'd had to save her behind more often than he cared to remember.

And what a lovely behind it was.

The feel of those luscious globes – as they had quite literally fallen into his hands – was ingrained in his skin. His fingers itched when merely reminiscing about the look she had given him; coy, seductive, playful, encouraging.

Encouraging him to ‘steady’ her anytime. He didn’t know how she still managed to surprise him by uttering such bold statements.

He knew a lot about her, yet he realized that her fear of arachnids was something surprising and interesting he'd learned about her in the past week.

Although she'd described it as ‘liking to know where they are’, rather than an actual fear. She would. Cheeky minx. He had to admit though, that teasing her about it by tickling her arm and the resulting panting Phryne flung into his arms was not at all bad. It had been unexpected; the scent of her perfume, her warm breath against his skin, her arms around his neck. The soft press of her curves had nearly been his undoing. Until, of course, Frederick Burn had popped up and 'caught them in the act'. He was fairly sure he'd lose his job (he hadn't) while she had simply been fawning over the fact that Burn had captured all their right angles.

 _Their_ angles.

He found himself thinking about those angles more often than he cared to admit. His angles, and her curves, and how they would fit together perfectly as he would sheathe himself inside of her tight body. He had done so, many times, in his dreams. He was quite the possessive man in the sense that he would not prefer to share the woman he loved, but he knew that, where Phryne was concerned, trying to pin her down in, say a marriage, would be like locking a bird in a cage for his own amusement. He’d told her he would never ask her to change, and he had been dead serious.

His own marriage had not exactly been successful. Well, it had, at first. Marriage had suited him. War hadn’t. He wasn’t sure if he could ever bring himself to tying the knot again. He supposed, in a way, he and Phryne were similar in that respect. He also figured they were both afraid to take that next step because they weren’t sure what this step would entail, exactly. Where would it take them? And where would it lead?

All he knew was that for now, he was exclusively Miss Fisher’s ball boy, indeed.

Although he had been flattered, ‘bombshell’ Angela Lombard had held no sway over him whatsoever. Of course it had been nice to know he hadn’t lost his (literal) touch; Miss Fisher hadn’t been the only woman to show an interest in him once his divorce had come through, though he’d always thought it best not to inform her of this fact. It wasn’t her business either, anyway. He had never (well, hardly ever) voiced his opinions about her long string of lovers. It wasn’t his place, even though he had often been pushed to the edges of his sanity, trying to keep quiet. Still, though, why did it feel as though he had been keeping secrets from her when he’d dined out with a woman or two? As though he had been cheating on her, doing something awful behind her back?

Miss Lombard and Miss Fisher were much alike, he mused, although he doubted the latter would agree. They both knew their way around men, and knew how to get what they wanted (or so they thought). He’d played along with Miss Lombard’s little game earlier and loosening her dress had been...well, just that, really. He’d felt none of the excitement, that drunk little pleasant buzz he always felt these days when he was around his partner in crime.

She had, at times, playfully accused him of having a bit of a jealous streak after his rather unorthodox tirade that night in her parlour. He had inadvertently admitted to having kept a certain kind of score when it came to her company of the night ( _fugitive anarchists, Russian clairvoyants, tango dancers...)._ However, it appeared she had quite the little green monster of envy living inside of her as well.

“ _Before, or after you'd helped her out of her dress?”_

That was somewhat of a possessive statement if ever he'd heard one. He'd been quite surprised by the sudden venom in her voice as she'd posed her question. Could it be that the impenetrable, confident and flamboyant Miss Fisher was actually _jealous_? And how did she even know about his little afternoon activity? Had she confronted Miss Lombard? It wasn’t as though he had done anything wrong. He was a free man.

He sure didn’t feel as though he were, but found he did not feel an ounce of regret. His heart was taken. Given, more like it. He’d hand his heart to her on a silver platter as all it did was beat for her anyway, in tandem with hers.

* * *

 

Was she, at this very moment, baiting him to see if he would bite? Part of him longed to take that bait literally. She sure looked like an angel, poised elegantly at his desk, but he knew she was sin incarnate. The way her body was leaning back slightly, the way she rested her weight on her hands, placed palms-down behind her on the surface of his (their) desk. The way her chest was pushed out just ever so subtly. If he focused, he would be able to make out the outline of her breasts underneath her dress.

He admonished himself; it wouldn't do for her to catch him staring at her chest. She'd never let him live it down.

But by _God_ , those beautiful breasts, those terrific tits of hers. He'd only ever laid eyes on them once (although, considering that she was not his wife, once was _probably_ already more than enough), and he had not been the only man in the room who'd been pleasantly surprised by her hidden talents. If not for the scene that had ensued between Constable Collins and Miss Williams' sister, he was fairly certain he would've wandered off backstage for a repeat performance of her fan dance. Minus the feathers. And minus the audience.

Her breasts had been firm, high and modest, but he was positive they would fit perfectly in the palms of his hands. He longed to cup them, to feel the creaminess, caress her, to feel her nipples pucker underneath his ministrations...

The sight of her in that ridiculously short pink skirt, covered in feathers, had haunted many a pleasurable dream. Many's the time he'd found himself in bed, a rather sticky situation at hand, as he woke up panting, alone in his bedroom. Replaying the scene before his mind's eye; the red velvet curtains, the plush cushions, the seductive music, _Phryne_ (dressed in that ridiculous Spanish outfit) sitting in his lap, pressing down ever so slightly on his groin, his face crushed forward into her chest.

He had often wondered why she'd pressed. Why did she always _press_ so close? Had she...craved some kind of intimate contact with him in that moment? Jack was no idiot. He knew she’d had no qualms about taking him to her bed early on in their acquaintance. But that was before they’d become close friends. He certainly still had scruples about the two of them becoming intimate, now more than ever before. He couldn’t bring himself to being just another one of her dalliances, yet he felt things between them had changed significantly lately. If his instincts were correct, she hadn’t taken another man to her bed in quite some time. He just wasn’t sure if this had anything to do with him. Maybe he was only fooling himself? Maybe she was simply more discreet about her flings now that they were this close and she had been made aware of his (thus far unreciprocated) feelings?

He didn’t just want her for her body though. If anything, her quick mind, endless passion, sharp wit and fearless determination were what drew him to her like a moth to a flame. But he couldn’t deny he had been wondering about the taste of her skin, the feel of it underneath his callused fingertips, the breathless whimpers escaping her moist lips...

His mouth, his lips, closing down on her nipple through her dress...

“ _That was close.”_

_Him, releasing her breast from his mouth. “It still is.”_

* * *

 

Her current ensemble might've been virginal white, all the way up to her light hat, but her behaviour was positively sinful. As was the cut of her dress. He knew she didn't shy away from showing a bit of flesh, but the way the split of her dress exposed her long legs, and all be damned, her shapely knees, was enough to send his blood boiling as it rapidly began to travel south towards his nether regions.

He was, by now, fairly certain she was doing it, whatever ‘it’ was, very much on purpose.

She sat there, left leg crossed over right, whilst chatting on about the case and poor Constance. Apparently completely unaware of the rather delicate state he now found himself in. Jack had never been more grateful of his (their) desk, obscuring a good part of his lap from her view.

And— dear God, had she _shifted_? He felt his cock harden in response to the subtle movement of her arse and curvaceous thigh.

“If Constance is being poisoned, perhaps she was the target all along. The killer didn't succeed the first time and...they're trying again.” she pondered out loud.

He looked up from the folder he was aimlessly rifling through, pretending to read even though nothing made sense to him at present, and his gaze landed on her shapely, ivory leg. Her knee was peeking out from under her dress. He wanted to lick that knee. He wanted to trace the crevice, the cavity of her knee on the back of her leg, with his tongue. He wanted to see her shudder in response. As his brain tried to grasp onto the words coming from her mouth, another part of his body was worried about a different coming altogether. He tried to focus on something, anything, that would calm his now rapidly beating heart and the hardness in his pants, standing at half-attention.

Science. An article he’d read about the periodic table. Yes, this was good.

Ac.

Ag.

Al.

Am.

Ar.

Arachnids. Miss Fisher. Her arachnophobia, spiders, lots of little spidery legs... _oh,_ but those legs...

_NO._

Damn it all to hell. Now he found himself thinking of that ridiculous attempt at catching a trapdoor spider. With her...well... _internal device_. It had been creative, to say the least. To his credit, Jack hadn’t blushed when having been confronted with the aforementioned device, knowing full well of its purpose and exact placement.

Namely; inside of the woman he longed to be inside of.

She'd be the death of him, of this he was sure. Her and her internal device.

He couldn't help but be intrigued, though. When he and Rosie had been intimate, at first it had been rather explorative. Getting to know her body, finding out exactly what would make her squirm, what would arouse her. Jack knew Miss Fisher’s experiences were probably far more exotic, although he daresay he was very curious and willing to learn. With Rosie, intercourse had been pleasurable, although it had left him wanting sometimes. He was simply more curious by nature, more adventurous (Phryne would laugh at this statement) and had wanted to try more. Unfortunately, Rosie hadn’t. In the end, their lovemaking was hardly that; it had become a means to conceive, and when this hadn’t occurred...After the war things just hadn’t been the same. In a way, he was glad; tossing an innocent child into their mess just didn’t seem fair.

Miss Fisher, on the other hand, had no wish to conceive (and neither did he at this point in his life) and had – naturally – obtained an illegal contraceptive device.

Would she be wearing it now, underneath the sheer material of her white dress? Would she go as far as to bait him by daring him to make a move on her? Would she have come to him prepared, in a jealous rage, to claim him as her own? He snickered internally; he sounded like one of those radio plays Miss Williams used to listen to.

Would she have on a slip, even, or camiknickers? A camisole with tap pants? What colour would it be?

Or would he find no barrier as he would trace the inside of her soft, shapely thighs with his long fingers, to brush against her dark, moist curls, cup her wet mound? To press his finger inside of her, just the tip, to watch her squirm on their desk. Would she be willing? Would he find her ripe, dewy and ready to be plucked? Would she look at him with those heavy-lidded eyes, gazing at him as she was wont to do these days, when she thought he wasn’t looking (he was a detective for Pete’s sake!).

She looked at him as though she were trying to undress him with her eyes. Jack had very little experience with being under the scrutiny of such a look, but instinct and baser urges had recognised it immediately. He rather doubted her thoughts would end at merely undressing him.

He throbbed with desire for her in his well-pressed woollen trousers.

With a strength he didn't know he possessed, he managed; “If that's the case, why the payments to Belinda?” His voice sounded strained, distant, but Phryne didn't seem to catch on, too lost in her own theories on the case.

“Well, that was a red herring. Constance swears he didn't pay her.” she stated.

He was most certainly not going to ponder on the fact that with her next shift of weight, he was fairly sure he could smell her, too. Not just her perfume or the scent that he'd become to associate with Phryne. No, he could smell _her_ , the essence of her body, an earthy tone he could nearly taste on his tongue. His mouth watered at the prospects.

He wondered briefly if she would object, were he to suddenly push her down flat on his desk, forcing her thighs apart (although he doubted much force would be required) and pushing his tongue against her needy centre. If she would moan in sinful delight as he would lick her cleft, bottom to top, to suck on her clit, lap at her like a man dying of thirst, and ram his tongue inside of her dripping heat. He wondered about her taste, her musk, the tight little bud he longed to lavish with the stiff tip of his tongue. He'd never tried anything like that with Rosie. Well, not after she beat him over the head with the bedside lamp at his first attempt. But he could barely contain the suppressed groan that threatened to spill forth from his lips as he imagined the Lady Detective, begging for his mouth on her cunt. Just picturing Miss Fisher, _Phryne_ , sprawled out on the desk, a feast of which he would surely never get enough.

Just the mere image was almost enough.

Almost.

He had tried, time and time again, to resist her, but he was drawn to her the way she appeared to be drawn to dangerous situations. And perhaps, he was too; after all, Phryne Fisher was hardly what was to be considered, in the widest possible terms, the safe option. Yet, paradoxically enough, she was his anchor in the storm and kept him grounded whenever he was floundering.

His cock was positively straining against his trouser fastenings at this point, and it was only through sheer, dumb luck that he was currently seated at their desk, opening the case file over the prominent bulge whilst reading to her.

“Somebody did. Two large amounts above and beyond Frederick's bribes were deposited into Belinda's account in the last two weeks, in cash, so they couldn't be traced.”

She moved closer, imperceptibly so, and her alabaster skin caught his eye once more. The sight of her bare flesh was far too distracting, and he had trouble breathing (probably because all of his blood was currently stored rather inconveniently in an impressive erection). Phryne, however, appeared to be staring off into space, processing this new piece of information.

“Would you get off my desk please?” he asked, closing the file with an audible snap. He grit his teeth.

It wasn't even her fault he was irritable. It was entirely inappropriate for him to be having these thoughts, let alone nurture them. He'd only ever even kissed her once, and although just the briefest touch of her tongue against his had sent his body into overdrive, it had hardly been romantic. Taking into consideration the fact that they were undercover at the Café Repliqué, trying to catch Dubois in the act, so to speak, did not exactly make for a wonderful evening. She had been scared witless, allowing her fears to take over - if only briefly - and he could simply not allow her to blow their cover.

Kissing her had seemed like the most appropriate thing to do at the time. In order to suitably distract her, of course.

He wasn't entirely sure what excuse he could use if he were to pull her from his desk, push her up against the wall, underneath the picture of the three pillars, to show her what all of her teasing had done to his single ‘pillar’. To hike up that wicked dress, or better yet, rip it at that tantalizing split and tear down his fly to take out his aching cock. To hoist her up, wrap those luscious legs around his waist, feel her skin and push all the way up inside her sinfully delicious body in one firm stroke. To slake his thirst, his desires, to finally take what had been traipsing around in front of him for so long, teasing him, tormenting him. To rattle the bloody picture frames on the wall with the force of his thrusts inside of her deliciously devious body.

Oh dear God, he _had_ been a single pillar for far too long.

The ramifications of such actions would certainly be severe, because he had no doubt Collins would walk in on them, considering his luck in life coupled with the fact that he doubted Miss Fisher would be any less vocal during intercourse than she was during her day to day life.

She would probably moan and scream the place down. He figured even their best angles would not be able to save his job in that scenario.

* * *

 

“Why?” she turns towards him, a question in her eyes as well as on her lips, seemingly taken aback.

“Just...remove yourself, Miss Fisher.” He closes his eyes against her antics, suddenly exhausted and so _goddamn_ hard, it hurts. He just needs her to get off ( _pun intended_ ). His. Their. Desk.

Now.

“I'm quite comfortable, thank you.” she replies, haughtily.

For a moment, he panics. In the briefest of seconds, he's unsure of his next move. She has to get off of his desk and far away from his office, and she needs to do it now. He will not be held responsible for his actions otherwise.

And so, like a man drowning, he grabs hold of his final lifeline, his buoy. The salvation of his sanity, or so he hopes. Smirking ever so slightly, he bends down (causing his hardness some grief) to retrieve something from his desk, the little finger on his right hand ever so subtly brushing the outside of her right thigh as he does. Her small intake of breath is like music to his ears, and for a moment there, he pauses. Forces himself to breathe.

Retrieving the jar with the spider from his desk sends Phryne scurrying, not unlike the before mentioned arachnids, from his desk in a flurry of white. She sits down coyly, yet provocatively at the same time, in the chair opposite his desk.

 _Her_ chair.

She crosses her legs for good measure, showing off even more of her shapely thigh than before.

He swallows.

“Not fair, Jack.”

He supposes, perhaps it hasn't been. He eyes the spider – affectionately named Harry – safely contained in a jar.

Then again, all is fair in love and tennis.

**Author's Note:**

> I used today's periodic table, so some of the elements might be off (just work with me here, Jack needs science!).  
> 


End file.
